Her pulse leaps onto my palm as I hold her by the wrist, restraining her from the atrocity clawing at my back. The viciousness of her stare is too foreign when directed at me.
“Move,” she says, voice like the calm and its storm.
But I know that even the spine of steel that I have admired for so long will not be able to withstand the tragedy of a fallen brother. I let her through when she pulls her arm away, because she deserves conviction in her strength.
She stands by the body of her savior. That spine melts into her knees, weighing her and her pride down.
A few times, she calls his name. Her voice is low, but I can hear it quaver. She has seen death enough to recognize Him, but she denies. With her hands and her words and her being, she denies that the…
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